


The Art of Getting Hammered

by saidith



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff, Friendship, Multi, Where is this in the timeline?, Who's to Say, look do you want to see blackout drunk hawke or not, slight emetaphobia, who doesn't love cuddling with their hot best friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidith/pseuds/saidith
Summary: I bet you’re wondering how I got to be in this situation - sandwiched between a tevinter fugitive and an apostate, sporting a brand new wedding ring, while a severed head sits on the fireplace and silently judges me for every decision I’ve made up to this point.That makes two of us.-In which Hawke learns the valuable lesson of what not to do when getting blackout drunk.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris/Female Hawke
Kudos: 16





	The Art of Getting Hammered

**Author's Note:**

> made this self-indulgent fic because i can. self-care.  
> <3

When Marian Hawke awoke, all she could feel was pain.

Biting, abhorrent, you’ve-completely-fucked-up pain. It pressed into the sides of her skull, threatening to cave into the blighted mush barely constituting a brain. Felt prickled her tongue. A cramp seized her lower back. How unfortunate, she thought, to know these aching muscles at an intimate level; and as her cheek spasmed in flaking drool, there was no doubt about it.

This was, perhaps, the worst hangover she’d ever had.

She didn’t even have the strength to lift her head. An attempt was made to fight the sleep gunk cementing her eyelids, and still, morning blear muddied the world in blue-black shapes. Sight was a damning thing; the dim light gave her headache pangs.

Scratch that. 

The woman was still drunk.

This time, she moved to rub her eyes. Her limbs didn’t budge. She tried again. Once more, and yes, registering things was no simple task at this point in time, but it was like something had pinned her arms to her sides. Something sturdy and warm. Possibly intricate - like three snakes encircling her. The thought of its vice-like grip posed a real threat, and she was convinced she might die via snake-strangle.

Her stirring aggravated one of the beasts. It tightened its hold on her, and - hold on, snakes did not have bones. At least, she was pretty sure they didn’t. Certainly they didn’t possess opposable thumbs, like the ones grazing her back and her hip. They didn’t rumble, all masculine like that, and this newfound logic, paired with the way that  made her stomach sink past her pelvis, meant it could not possibly be a snake. Wonderful!

Someone’s nose pressed against her nape. 

They sighed, the warm breath eliciting gooseflesh in its wake. Her stomach sank lower. There were beasts here - just not of the animal variety. 

Marian blinked almost desperately now. She could smell them, the reek of porous alcohol and musk, because she was right in the crossfire, sandwiched between what she realized now were two men; her nose pressed up against the broad chest in front, her backside outlined with a warm body behind. Her eyes grew used to the flickering light, grasping shapes and colours in the dimness of it. The man facing her, his breath fanning her cheeks, had pointed features. Lips. Eyelashes. Hair….

_ Maker, this is the last time I let Isabela order our drinks. _

Her mind was catching up now; hazily, sure, but the floodgates were opened, and with it came memories of Isabeala’s jeering and barmaids and half-empty tankards and trading looks with Fenris and Anders-

The light shot up and now - oh, how obvious it was now - the man’s hair shone, brilliant and white. Pointed ears curved past his skull. Thin tattoos followed down the chin. Realization shot up her spine as she stared at Fenris’ sleeping form. They were still in casual wear, though her top exposed a bit of shoulder, and ignoring the tinge of disappointment, she felt clarity like it was a heavy thing sitting on her lungs. 

She was being held by him. Fenris, the fugitive so pettish he couldn’t go to the Gallows without listing all the things mages did not deserve, was cuddling this stupid, drunken mage while he slept. 

Before her mind shut down completely, she tried to look at the man at her back; but, a glint stole her attention. On the hand resting against her hip, there was something twinkling. A ring; small and thin and definitely silver, tarnished as it was. The band was a little too tight on her ring finger.

Her ring finger. It....?

Hawke practically snapped her neck to the other side. A head of ruffled blonde validated fears she didn’t know existed, as Anders’ face twisted in his sleep, and he sought out the lost heat source. Half-parted lips trailed up her bare shoulder to where it connected with the neck, his movements unconsciously slow, brushing past her pulse. The light flared again and heat spread out the rest of her body. 

She peered at the dim source; a charred heap of logs, veined with dormant fire, shifted in the hearth. They’d passed out on the floor in front of the fireplace. Great.

Atop the firebox, the mantel glimmered; though how a thing made of stone was sparkling, she couldn’t say. It was remarkably clean, too, and layered with gold, and decorated with a new centerpiece. 

A man’s head, his blue eyes glazed over with death, staring at her. 

...A severed head.

Two things happened then - remnants of yesterday’s evening shot up her throat, and a sudden wave of force magic sent her bedmates flying in opposite directions.

There might have been an audible thud upon impact; it was hard to tell over the sound of the Champion getting acquainted with absurd cuisine choices. Who in their right mind thought pickled olives sounded appetizing, only drunk-off-her-ass Marian Hawke could say. The spasming eventually quit, and she spat. 

“Certainly there are other ways to wake a man, Hawke.” Anders’ voice came from one end weakly. It was pitch black now that the fire was put out by her wave.

A tiny voice in the back of her head thought a sympathy laugh should’ve been the first thing out her mouth. Or an apology - or even just pretending to pass out again. What came out her disloyal mouth was, “Is this actually happening right now?”

“Evidently.” Fenris’ scowl needn’t be visible to know its presence.

With a whoosh, one of the torches affixed to the wall lit up, and bracing the space beside it, Anders. He looked...well, comparably, it was difficult to say. More of a rat’s nest than yesterday, with dark circles, bloodshot eyes, slowly examining their surroundings. 

It was an unfamiliar place, as the cast stone stretched far, and higher in its ceiling. Royal blue draperies impressed with Orlesian insignias were strung along its expanse. The impressive decorum compensated for a lack of furnishing. There was one rug, newly coloured with upchuck, and a bed farther from it. She recognized Fenris’ armor and the mages’ staffs strewn about either side of her. Somehow clear of expelled foodstuffs. The Maker looked to be merciful in the most worthwhile circumstances.

“I am. _So_ sorry,” Hawke started, unlocking logical brain. “For what it’s worth. Even if that’s not much. But, I’ve no idea what’s….. How did we get here?”

“Everything is a bit hazy after the first round at Wicked Grace.” Anders was trying to summon the explanation by rubbing his temple with finger and thumb. Or dispel memories of said night.

She wobbled like a lamb trying to stand and gestured towards the mantel’s centerpiece. “And what of this? This... _thing_ ?”

Sobering up proved to be difficult for both mages. “Huh. A thing indeed.” The blonde pawed at the wall until the torch was in his grasp, then sauntered over to inspect this thing. The dead thing. The dead, disgusting, bug-eyed thing that she needed to look away from before she started dry heaving.

“If you’re both quite finished.” Bless that passive aggressive elf. He was pointing at the bed; more specifically, the mound beneath the covers saturated with blood. Lifting the duvet and peering at its content, he snorted. Not out of disgust; she knew his ‘that's what I though ’ look all too well. “The rest of him seems to be here. Naked.”

“Isabela’s work, I take it,” Anders said casually.

That name snapped a moment of recollection in her. Yes, the ex-captain. The only one who’d escaped this situation.

“The missing link,” she mused aloud.

Fenris looked unsettled. “You are being uncommonly cryptic given the circumstances.”

“No. I’m just not completely sober.” She nodded. “Yet. I’m dealing with a lot right now, okay? Does anyone else happen to remember the events leading up to this point?”

Her companions blinked. 

The wheels in her head turned at an agonizingly slow pace. “I think it was just past sundown when we arrived at the Hanged Man. Yes? Then met Isabela at the bar. Ordered drinks. Sat.” The list ticked with each finger.

“Not the usual, though. She brought that bottle - some type of imported spirits?” the blonde mage added. “The bottle was half empty last I remember.”

Hawke felt a burn pint-pointing the back of her skull. It started small, but became annoyingly poignant. That issue was placed on the backburner while she bounced ideas off Anders. “Wasn’t it just the four of us there?”

“Yes. Company roped in by charming, Hawke-branded zest excluded, of course.” 

The stinging sunk into the divot of her neck like a dull knife. She rubbed at it. “Then...then what of Isabela, I wonder?” Her guts soaked with reasonable panic about as quickly as oil in water.

Anders inspected the head once more. “Hm. Why do I feel as though we’ve been stuck with the shit end of the deal here?”

“Hawke.”

Fenris - ah, he was trying to burn a hole in her head with his glare - grated out the command. Her surname served as an interpretation for many things, and in this instance, it was unquestionably used as a threat. Her lip twitched.

“What?”

“Your hand.” 

_ Forthcoming as ever, Fenris. _

Anders gawked at her, like he was witness to the disastrous brainfire raging away in her head. “Is that… How did you…..?” 

Finally, it clicked. The wedding ring shone, discolored and drab, in the flickering torchlight once she paid mind to it. A thought popped in her head and asked if Marian “The Sober Fool” Hawke would’ve left this matter at the bottom of the priority list same as Marian “The Intoxicated Idiot” Hawke had.

“A wedding ring,” she declared.

“Mage,” Fenris said to the other, “has she been poisoned with your kind of folly?”

“You mean has she been possessed by a spirit? No, not that I can sense.”

She felt heat in her cheeks. “Shut. I happen to be just as confused as both of you.”

For once, the two companions soundlessly shared a ‘what-in-the-actual-fuck’ sentiment. Marian could not contain her fidgeting.

“Alright. So how about we put this all together, shall we? Last night, we went to the Hanged Man and proceeded to drink ourselves under the table. Then, I woke up without my sea captain, trapped between two inebriates in an unfamiliar room, while a _severed fucking head_ watched it all go down. As it stands, do you imagine a piece of jewelry to be the most pressing issue here?”

Silence.

“We need to get our bearings in order and leave, quickly. Find Isabela. I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon enough if we’re being set up. ” She reigned in tipsy blabbering with a nod, Fenris lowered his shoulders to some degree, and Anders muttered something about inebriates.

The complaints were kept to a minimum as they gathered their belongings. With weapons delegated and armor snug, they quickly made themselves presentable; or, tried to. It was truer to say the group created the semblance of having their shit together. Hawke braved the fumbling awkwardness to fix everyone’s hair; inwardly, she may have been a teensy tiny bit satisfied with the task, running her fingers through greasy scalps like a lovesick little goblin. 

Before leaving, Fenris asked for their consideration. “Perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves here.”

Hawke and Anders blinked, then looked back at the severed head.

“The pun was not intentional.”

“Still.” Should they leave it here? Take it along? She’d had her fair share of strange loot toted along with the party, but this was new; so she turned to the other mage.

“You cannot be serious,” he said incredulously, “Where would we even put it?”

“Should it be left in such a state? If that is not the landlord, the inhabitants will not be pleased to see what’s been left on their mantle,” Fenris pointed out. “Nor their bed.”

If the city guard became involved, Hawke needn’t surmise how much more of a pain in the ass that’d become, or what kind of unlucky rumours would stick to this place; but, the body wasn’t going anywhere, obviously. Marching forward, she grabbed the head, and chucked it into the fireplace. With the remaining blocks left in the firewood rack, she pointed her staff and lit it up with a blast of flames. 

The men regarded their leader charging past them with uncertainty. She waved her hand. “They’re just going to have to deal with the dead body.”

“And the vomit. That room will forever be robbed of pleasant aromas.” Anders shuddered.

Oh. Yes, that room was about to smell considerably more foul. 

Hawke walked a little faster.

As fortune would have it, the mansion was all but abandoned. The hallways were littered with empty crates and tattered paintings relieved of framework. Anders pointed out couplings of bedrools, and the notion of squatters dawned on them. It was odd there weren’t any here at the moment, and perhaps more so that they didn’t run into any traps.

At the front entrance, Fenris pressed the side of his face against the oak. The points of his ears ticed once. Twice. Without a word, he pushed on the door. 

A dawning haze slipped past the gap and warmed the slivers of skin it reached. It took a moment for everyone to become accustomed to it, blinking like newborns. Presently, the municipal square of Hightown was quiet. Larks chorused a sunup ditty, flitting after one another in the hedges. Well-kept greenery intertwined and arced up the walls; a charming landscape for serenading. Hawke recognized this subsection. A stairway connected to the wall beside this estate would allow quick passage to Lowtown.

“Let’s wait to see if anyone shows, then follow my lead,” she whispered. 

A few minutes passed before she surged ahead, and the trio hightailed it to The Hanged Man.

~

Ah, the sweet smell of ‘Pub Perfume.’

Varric had coined the term. He’d sigh like a smitten teenger wiggling his hips when you stepped inside and got hit with a generous waft of sour ale, vomit, and the smell of desperation. Fenris’ words, not hers. Though no one disagreed that the smell was absolutely foul.

On any other occasion, the desperation might’ve been more potent, but the morning hour drew in a smaller crowd of sailing men who’d just recently come into port, and guards relieved of their nightwatch duties. The ambience was dispassionate in its lull of quiet conversations and hocking phlegm. Behind the bar counter was Corff; a respectable employer, unconventional by Kirkwall’s standards, and this establishment’s barkeep. The job fit him well, with his polite little smile and eyes that crinkled when you told a decent joke, and it helped that his drinks were never watered-down.

Isabela, however, was nowhere in sight.

“Hawke! Back so soon?” The bartender smirked. “Thought you might have died.”

It sure felt like it. “Don’t you ever sleep, Corff?” 

“Do you?” He sniffed. “Can’t imagine I saw you more than four or five hours ago.”

The woman toddled over to a barstool and plopped down. She thought the sight of two grotty mages and their porcupine babysitter might arrest the normal folk; and as she swiveled around, a few heads whipped the other way to get a good analysis of cracks along the wall. 

Anders started towards the back of the pub. “Isabela might be upstairs. I’ll have a look.”

“I’ve not seen her since last night.” The barkeep raised one brow. “She hurried out with you and your elven gentleman to follow after those noblemen, but she didn’t return.”

“She went after some lord?”

His head tilted at her. “Correct. When **you** split with that lord and his men, she gathered your fellows and followed suit.”

Well that just gave her more questions than answers.

Surely this was not Corff’s first encounter with a hungover patron crawling back to him in search of unravelment, or justification, or just someone to recount how one stupid decision spearheaded a thouand others; and, it certainly was not her  first time making an ass out of herself in front of him - but that did not remedy the sinking feelings of shame. And the indication must have been obvious because the bartender, looking troubled now, said so. “I take it things did not go according to plan, then.”

“I’d be able to agree or disagree could I even remember what you’re referring to,” she mumbled, forehead sinking onto the counter. At least he was polite enough not to sound too amused. 

The bartender lifted an overhanging glass from its perch and went to work on a concoction; he was much too quick to keep an eye on, but he pitched between flasks with confidence, and within a couple minutes, the finished product slid towards her. Whatever was inside topped the brim with chunks that were red and pungent. Eugh.

“Drink,” came his command. “It will help with the hangover.”

And when the bartender supplied you with free drinks, best not to tell him no; they cheers’d, and acrid tartness burned all the way down her throat. She smiled at him through the instinctual grimace. He laughed.

“And for you, friend?” He was asking Fenris, who dismissed the kindness. At least he had a mind to pretend  sobriety would keep this operation running, cute as that sentiment was. Had there been wine involved, it might’ve been a different story. 

There wasn’t much Corff could relay to be conducive in their quest. This aristocrat, dressed in the ‘tackiest chainmail known to man’ and managed to whisk Lady Hawke away into the night, remained nameless; even the man’s underlings kept to themselves. Must’ve been new to Kirkwall; though, his features matched that of the severed head and plump body found this morning, and that knowledge was somehow alleviating as it was unwelcome. She didn’t say it aloud, of course. At some point, Anders hit it off with a steward and conversed with the kittenish piece in a quiet corner of the room. Fenris took the seat beside Hawke’s, and she did very much notice the heat of his shoulder brushing hers. She thought about ordering another drink. 

Ultimately, they were back to square one. 

She politely reached into her pockets to pay the fee; obvious enough for Corff to recognize it.

“Not to worry. I’ll put it on your tab.” He winked.

Liquor burned pleasantly in the pit of her stomach. “Thank you again, Corff. You do a great service to Kirkwall, you know that?”

She hoisted herself out of the barseat with the man beside her following suit, and caught Anders’ attention to give a subtle nod. The pair exited the tavern first; the mage convening with them thereafter. 

“The steward couldn’t prove much else either. All he knew was those men were drowning in coin,” he confessed.

Fenris peered down at Hawke. “Whether it is in your nature to seek trouble, or it is trouble which hunts you down, I cannot say.”

She shrugged.

The surrounding area of Lowtown was beginning to sprout with life. Sunlight edged over roofs of compact buildings, slithered along backstreet walls, as the shadows dwindled to their base; it was near Summerday, and the streets were sure to warm in less than an hour. People of all sorts, overtaxed labourers and dainty women and lyrium-addled, rounded the corners or lingered in their doorways, anxious to get to work before it was sweltering. 

“We should decide what to do and do it quickly. If Templars caught wind of our involvement, one can only imagine the ammunition Meredith would be supplied with.” Anders sneered. “The kind of unrest she’d provoke if she knew mages were associated…”

“In truth, if the man died due to our involvement, it’d be a reasonable assumption to suspect a mage,” the elf pointed out. Marian struggled to comprehend the math that two mages were greater than one warrior.

“Ah, yes, that is the natural conclusion to come to after a head’s cut clean. If you consider a piece of wood sharper than a sword, then by all means, take my staff.” Something about the healer’s tone was more bitter than what the situation called for. 

Hm. That wasn’t good.

“If I’d not been witness to it, I’d say this entire mess reeks of blood magic.” The fugitive spat. 

Anders threw up his arms. “Of course you  would. You’d play the ass-kisser well, were you leashed to Meredith and spewing that kind of propaganda in her name.”

Fenris’ eyebrows shot up, and it occurred to Hawke that now was the best time to step in. “Come now, let’s-”

“You speak plainly for an abomination. Has the demon corrupted your mind or has your brain rotted away completely?”

“Fen, is th-”

“I’d rather be corrupted in the name of righteous cause than serve myself and succumb to revenge. At least my purpose will serve an end.”

“Your end shall be served here and now if you wish it, mage.”

This is fine, she thought. If anything, she’d do a great job of getting stabbed when she stepped in, seeing as how they were two petty insults away from beating the ever-loving shit out of each other.

“Excuse me?” came a small voice.

That’s when they noticed someone tugging at Hawke’s robes.

A child; his head was bare, excluding dark patches stippling around his ears, and his tatters were all but heartbreaking. Dirt beneath the fingernails. And that face - it was gaunt, but not frighteningly so. No, it was puppy-ish. Immediately, Marian wanted to scoop him up and coerce Sebastian into tending to this boy as if his life depended on it. And it just very well might.

“You’re Miss Champion, yes?” he asked again with an adorable lisp.

Bending at the knees, she nodded. “At your service, little lord.”

When he grinned, half of a crowded smile was missing. “I knew it! Da said it would take all day to find the Lady Champion, that I would have to go allll the way to Hightown and back, but I betted I could find you fast. Really! And I was right and he’s g’na hit the ceiling because I found her, I found you _so_ fast.” He tugged her forward, the vigor minimal. “C’mon, miss! Hurry!”

~

The boy, Anwir, was his breathless introduction, led them to a warehouse at the docks. The place was dated; not only because half the exterior was greying into shambles, but the design acknowledged a benighted history of Kirkwall, when even the city’s infrastructure accounted for magisters’ exhibitionism. It was excessive and intimidating and a blueprint for all others fluctuating in stature along the waterfront. 

Hawke didn’t understand it. The smell of dead fish did the job just as well. 

A sign tilted off double doors that creaked as the boy jiggled them open. The inside wasn’t much nicer - light streaked through dull portholes, the air hanging and stagnant. Anwir marched without a care. 

Considering the number of fetch quests Hawke and company pursued, it was strange this place had stayed under the radar. And she said as much.

“Da used to work for the owner,” he answered. 

“Did something happen to your father?”

He bounced his shoulders and said little else.

The hall dipped into a multi-level room half open to the sea; two docks jutted out from the middle, and centered between them, a modest sailing boat roped to a cleat, seesawing in the current. The warehouse was uninhabited, save for its new arrivals. Their guide jogged ahead and rounded a set of stairs at the opposite side. He motioned for them to follow, decided against it, and raced to the second story.

Fenris visibly bristled. “Something does not seem right.”

They were halfway across the turf when, from atop the stairwell, Anwir stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

A wall of flames enclosed the three like caged animals, forcing their backs together, and footfalls, clunky and distant - then thundering ahead, as mobs clad in chainmail gushed in from separate doorways on the second level and filed round the edge. Fifteen men adorning dented kettle hats and six mauls, five axes, four shortbows, were all trained on Hawke. One stepped forward - no doubt important, if a thulian plume burgeoning from his bonnet meant as much - and flung a sovereign at the child with his thumb and forefinger. 

“Leave, boy.” 

Anwir gleefully pocketed the return and scurried off. From out of sight, a door slammed, echoing in the spacious standoff.

Ostentatious Feather Man practically glowed with satisfaction, sizing up his prey. Or prizes? The way he ogled Passive Aggressive Vagabond and Manic Hobo, could go either way; and not that Hawke could blame him, but she  laid claim to these bisexual disasters, thank you very much. Butchering slavers and templars respectively, and then proceeding to, covered in blood, _flirt with her_ , bumped them to the top of ‘Kirkwall’s Most Bangable’ three years ago. 

She cleared her throat, loudly.

“Champion of Kirkwall.” Ah, he remembered who he’d sent for. “Wonderful of you to join us. I’m sure your wench will be delighted, granted she’s still alive.”

Any hope of mowing these goons down disappeared. If this was meant to be a ransom, she should’ve asked Corff for a stronger drink. 

“Where’s Isabela?”

The man tutted. “First, you will tell me where he is.”

He? Were these the nobleman’s lackeys? “Your master, you mean.”

That won her some serious eye-rolling. “Who else? And before you continue this charade, we know he’s not been imprisoned. You will tell me, because you must know his whereabouts.”

Presumably, he was in the fireplace. “I must, mustn’t I.” She feigned deep contemplation.

One mercenary broke formation, preparing to unsheath his weapon, and the neighboring men practically jumped him. His voice was strained. “Harlot! She’s locked Don Juan Chrisjohn in her house of ill repute! This one deserves death by my hand, Kerr!” He was silenced by an elbow to the chest.

A snort, followed by muffled sounds, escaped Fenris. She shot him a dry look, hoping that ‘don’t you dare laugh, motherfucker’ would translate. 

“If you have an idea of his whereabouts, why track down Hawke? Why not just - go there?” Anders posed a legitimate question. 

The leader, she supposed it to be Kerr, spoke again, slower this time, “You’re having a laugh at our expense, I take it. Must we recount our surrender, after you, the elf, and the pirate forced us back?”

If he was offering; and for Anders, perhaps he’d oblige.

As if reading her mind, the commanding lackey brought attention back to her. “It is obvious she keeps her house of ill-repute well guarded. And we do not wish to shed more blood than necessary. My lady, I call for you so that we may trade. Our captain for your wench. I think that is more than fair, no?”

For all she knew, it was; and whether they pegged her for fool or not, a lot was banking on Don Juan Chrisjon being alive - which he definitely wasn’t. There was a chance if the other two broke the news to Kerr about where to find Don’s burnt-to-a-crisp head, negotiations might fare well. A slim possibility, but nonetheless. Isabela, and subsequently, the details of last night, were worth the trouble. 

Maybe she could pull something out of her ass? Although that endeavor was slightly more believable and way  more fun while intoxicated. And there was the question of why they considered her an escort, because although blackout drunk Hawke’s intentions were questionable, she was hardly that desperate.

Hopefully, at least. 

Kerr snapped and the archers drew their bowstrings. “I must confess, we’re meant to escape with Chrisjon as soon as he’s returned to us. So. If you could hurry it up.”

Fenris bit back a snarl. “I trust your men want to leave here with thei-”

**BANG.**

Marian jumped; and in the sonorousness of aggressively opening a flaming door, voices pattered. A feminine giggle followed. Past the wall of fire and out of sight, others approached from the main level. Clearly Kerr realized who they were, if his face void of colour gave any indication.

“So they’re attempting to finesse this lock, and I nearly piss myself laughing - I’d suddenly been charged with the care of Kirkwall’s most dangerous virgins. If she’d seen it, I swear, her genitals would’ve smoothed over,” came a voice entirely similar to Isabela’s.

It earned a laugh; a mannish one at that. “Hawke, you mean?”

“Who else? She’s insatiable, that one; and I knew it, too. I always knew. She teetered off with, erm, what’s his name?”

“Don Juan Chrisj-”

“That’s it! You reckon he’s heard the full thing during a passionate evening? Even thinking about such an unfortunate name is a turn-off.” The voice neared the main room at a pace similar to Marian’s plummeting stomach. “Anyway, those virgins might be compelled to thank me; the lock needed a woman’s touch. And Kitten will  be just as happy with the results. Might have experienced the art of lock-picking already, actually. We ended up finding Hawke and your Don, and it turns out - she’d beheaded the man.”

A groan. “That’s repulsive.”

“Oh, absolutely!” It sounded as if she was grinning from ear to ear. “But let’s not stop there. No, I think it’d be more fun if we played some more, see if you can ‘convince’ me of looser lips? I’ll have you know I’m a fountain of information, given the right beverage. Ser Guardsman.” 

There was a crash, not unlike glass shattering. “Oh, blast. Don’t suppose we should-” 

As they entered into the main area, the Maker decided that was the moment Isabela would notice she’d drawn an audience. It was definitely her, and she blinked at Hawke, then up to the cavalry; her drinking partner, dressed in familiar chainmail sans kettle hat, did the same; although, his face was significantly more pale than the rest of him.

“Well, talk of the devil and she doth appear,” Isabela said, “Shepherded the virgins, too.”

“ _Kill them all!_ ” Kerr roared. In an instant, the flames were snuffed out, and Don Juan’s men rushed forward.

Isabela bashed the bottle against her converser’s head, and before the man had a chance to hit the ground, she’d stuck her hands in his trousers. The others shielded her; Fenris’ greatsword clashed cavalry from the side, Anders expelling the downpour from behind with the point of his staff. At the front, four soldiers charged Hawke, who gladly met them with thunderstroke magic ripping from her palms. The smell of burnt flesh seized her, as lightning zig-zagged between enemies. She swallowed bile creeping up her throat.

A lone warrior went at Fenris from his blind spot, and a dagger flashed forward, sinking into the enemy’s throat. He clawed at the thing before dropping. Isabela dislodged the knife, as though wiggling it out an Adam’s Apple was a chore, then set her sights on the others flanking the elf.

Hawke’s blood drummed in her ears. It nearly drowned out the shouts turned to screams, steel against steel. Nearly, as Kerr cried out and barreled towards her.

He was sided by four other men, but the commander was first to heave his greatsword. She ducked, not accounting for the others’ anticipation, and a sharp pain tore through her arm. She wailed and drew the limb in, quick to muster a force wave that sent the attackers hurtling in all directions. Blood coloured her palm as she tested the muscles in her hand. He’d sliced through the fleshy bit of her forearm; by no means fatal, though nauseating to look at. 

Hawke’s cry garnered her companions’ full diligence, and the four henchmen met death in a less-than-merciful fashion. Kerr’s sword collided with Fenris’, weighing strengths; and as he called for his men, there was not one who answered. 

Finally, Isabela silenced the commander, driving the blade into his side. She twisted, and Hawke heard his ribs shatter when the pirate kneed him off it. Red spittle bubbled at his lips, and he writhed on the ground with wide, blood-shot eyes lingering with Hawke’s. 

She gifted the parting man with a ceremonious, two finger gesture. Silence befell the warehouse littered with bodies; four left standing, the rest twitching or still.

Anders was beside Hawke in an instant, gently taking hold of her elbow. “You are aware these robes don’t substitute as armor, right?” Uh-oh, he was pulling out the indignant healer voice. She deserved as much, but was thankful the softness in his features remained. 

“It’s a flesh wound.” She snorted, then stilled upon request. Under his whispering guise, swirling, pale-green tones lit up the wound. Blood became a clotted beacon, skin surfing to join. Fieriness shot out his fingertips and danced across the sinews of muscle mending together. 

Isabela, humming to herself as she rummaged through dead mens’ pockets, all but flipped backwards when a poor sod grabbed her ankle. She shrieked and kicked the blood-spattered kettle hat until he released; and appearing that she’d tired of looting, the Rivaini ambled (i.e. sped) over to watch Anders. 

“No need to front, Hawke. You adore the fawning,” she teased, shaking gore off her blades.

The other three looked fixedly at Isabela.

Her forehead wrinkled in a furrow. “What? I’m not wrong.”

“I think the virgins and the head-toting kitten are more interested in your exploits.” Fenris crossed his arms, trying to look less amused. Failing, to look less amused. “Assuming you can stand upright. ”

“I did try to warn you about how potent the alcohol was; though it’s-” She guffawed. “It’s not as if you’d remember, I suppose. Where should I begin - before or after your deflowering?”

The tingling on Hawke’s skin dissipated, and Anders’ hands lingered, brushing the smooth skin. It was like the sword had never pierced her to begin with. She patted his cheek, oblivious to his blush as she faced the ex-captain. “Could we discuss the details as we walk? I desperately need a bath for this filth and…. _my_ filth; I imagine if I’d spontaneously combust if I set foot in the Chantry right now.”

The entire way to Hawke’s estate, Isabela reminded her a number of times she’d been actively warned.

-

Even with the sea rover’s teasing, Marian had to admit, she was alleviated; indebted, even, to what stuck in that woman’s blasphemously intoxicated memory. She filled in blank spaces left by the fourth round of spirits; which, by that point, Anders and Fenris were so unimpressed with their women - both plastered and flighty - they’d skulked off elsewhere. “Not that they had room to talk,” she explained, “Fenris was two ahead of us. Turns out the brooding never goes away. A shame.”

“And Anders?”

“He’s an emotional drunk - and you were being _very_ annoying, Hawke.”

At some point, the infamous Chrisjon weaseled his way into the ladies’ conversation. He seemed an unordinary guardsman, spending off-duty time as he and his men pleased. The money he carried caught Isabela’s attention, as it was strange for a guardsman to wave it around so freely, and even stranger how little he knew about the Champion of Kirkwall. But oh, how _interesting_ she was, and how pretty and funny, and on his list went while he tried to get her alone. The drunkard in question, whose ego grew two sizes that night, was puzzled only by the lack of drinks at their booth. It took some convincing, or, all of twenty minutes, but his promise of expensive wine did the trick.

“Said he had some in his possession - aged for fifteen years, simply divine.” She punctuated it with a chef’s kiss. “Such is the price for getting into your pants; which, by the way, I strongly advise you to set the bar higher.”

“I don’t understand. We never got to my family’s estate?” 

She nodded. “As luck would have it, that was all your doing.”

Something was off about him, and as he guided wasted little Marian out, it suddenly clicked - a ‘WANTED’ notice she’d seen on the Chantry board earlier in the day, matching his description. It all made sense now. The man meant to rob her mage blind. 

Isabela made the executive decision to, instead of alerting actual  guards, wedge herself right in the middle of this mess. Law enforcement? Pfft. Maker, anyone could get to policing with the right attitude, and the right brigade. So, from bustling tables downstairs, to the recreational space a  la Varric, she sought after the rest of her drunken brigade.

Then, with a wicked smile, she said, “I found our boys, cornered away upstairs, and you would never believe ho-AH.”

Hawke, who’d been messing with the front door, stopped and turned when Isabela winced, rubbing the side of her hip; behind her stood Fenris and Anders, fixing to suffocate the woman at the behest of their matching glares. 

“Fucking - I located these loons and informed them of my plan of attck.” She grumbled something at Fenris, akin to a low whine.  “Thank the sweet tits of Andraste you dawdled as much as these idiots did, or else we would have lost track of you.”

The estate farce really was Hawke’s doing; she’d been too drunk to remember where she lived. Chrisjon and his toadies didn’t second-guess it until their ward came across an unlit doorway and unlocked the door by means of drop kicking it. So the ‘nobleman’ offered expensive wine in exchange for her company, and she’d led him to a shotty mansion stripped of necessities. The whorehouse angle began to make sense, chauvinistic as it was.

Hawke sashayed inside, and from the safety of shadows, her companions watched Don Juan Chrisjon follow close behind. His defense guarded the front door, or what was left of it; even so, still under the influence, the ragtag party overwhelmed his guard. This feat, while ambitious on paper, was likelier to believe on the account of Fenris going absolutely feral on those bastards. They scattered like bugs within minutes.

“Finally, we turned up at your room, only to find there wasn't any reason to worry. Don Juan Chrisjon broke the first and most important rule. Do not fuck with Hawke.”

Marian shook her head. “But _beheading_ , for fuck's sake. I’ve not even done that while sober.”

“First, I find that hard to believe; second, don’t trouble yourself over it.” Isabela waved. “Man should’ve known better than to bed you under the pretense of expensive liquor; also, you were piss drunk. Name, motivation, and execution - three strikes.”

“Sounds to me this was a mage’s doing after all.” Fenris smirked.

Marian slumped further in her seat. The foyer’s privacy allowed for self-reproach to go unjudged by the rest of the household; and trust and believe, there would be penance, because when one fiasco fizzled out, Maker willing, worse things took its place. She sighed. “While I appreciate the exposition - and make no mistake, this turned out to be less of a mess because of your intervention - I’m still curious as to why you left. And-” She slid the wedding band off. “-how this came into my possession.”

The ex-captain clapped once. “In truth, you passed out. Wouldn’t budge. I was tired, not drunk enough to sleep on the floor, and lucky you, Anders and Fenris needn’t be convinced to stay while I made my way back. It was a pain, though, that Don Juan’s remaining men weren’t keen on it. But less of a pain that the guard they assigned to watch me was a complete sucker.”

There was a pause, and though Hawke couldn’t be sure, Isabela’s jaw tightened as she eyed the silver ring.

“But that thing…” She cleared her throat. “Sorry, love. I haven’t the faintest.”

Thus was the consensus. Nobody beside the wearer acknowledged the damn thing, so she’d no choice but to accept its unsolvable mystery. Hawke tended to any other small injuries the party may have sustained during combat and bid them farewell. 

The sun began its descent as Fenris, Anders, and Isabela took their leave. A group of children skipped past them, fisting the sides of their aprons as they tried to keep up with their giggling leader. Noblemen turned their noses at merchants with claim to products no one else could match, priests with hooked baskets nodded thanks to those that contributed to their alms, and lax guardsmen were posted at most every entryway. The sounds of Hightown waned in the cool evening.

Isabela scowled. “For the record, if you’d asked me to forget the indecent situation I found you two in instead of kneeing me in the arse, I would have complied.”

“Fine. Isabela, perish the thought, or I will be forced to hurt you.” 

“Coyness doesn’t suit you, Fen,” she said, “I like you better when you’re brooding; more specifically, brooding with Anders, going on and on about the logistics of a tripartite marriage-”

The blonde whined. “Please, can we speak no more of this?”

Fenris, sweat gleaming on his brow, nodded, and she could only roll her eyes. Pretending to zip her lips and toss the key, she winked. “If I didn’t know how to properly get hammered, I just might’ve stayed for the honeymoon cuddling session.”


End file.
